Half Life Page 4

  Raul’s mouth twitched, and finally his hard eyes softened. “I know who you are. I know your family. Your mother was my third-grade teacher. I know your sister has been working with Pete on that fucking protest. You’re a little thing, but feisty, just like your sister.”

  This charming biography of my family notwithstanding, I was getting tired of Raul. “Have you seen Pete or not?”

  He smiled mirthlessly. “Not.”

  “Why did you beat Pete up two weeks ago?”

  The smile vanished, his facial muscles cramping again. “Because he’s a fucking faggot, that’s why, not that it’s any of your business. You have any faggot brothers?”

  I felt fury build within. “No,” I said, my voice tight. “And I could do without the ‘faggot’ crap, okay?” I had never met Pete, but I felt that I had entered his soul. How it must have hurt to have his older brother mock him. All that contempt and brutality. Somehow, Pete had done more than survive it, he had prospered. The guy had possessed an inner strength I found remarkable. I said, “Pete’s been gay his whole life. You used to beat him up when you were kids, but then you stopped. Again, why start up again two weeks ago?”

  Raul stared at me, but his marble eyes were blank, he wasn’t seeing me. Clearly, his mind was working, which was obviously tiring for him. After a moment he said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I did it because the freak got into the newspapers. Because of that nuclear dump protest. The guys have had a good time making fun of me for that, my faggot brother being written up in the newspaper like he’s some kind of savior or something. If you ask me, the mayor and that Cornwell guy have the right idea. Bringing that shit here would bring in money, create jobs.”

  The disjointedness of this speech suggested a mind operating at subpar. But there was something there under the surface, some clear revelation hidden among all those stupid words. Ah, I got it. “And if the mayor gets his way, and Desert Rock constructs a repository, Castillo Construction might get a contract to help.”

  He shrugged, took a packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, and tried to light up. The wind kept blowing out the lighter, and he had to turn against the blast to get the thing going, which put his back to me. His deltoids beneath the flannel shirt looked like the roots of a gigantic tree. He turned around, toking on the cigarette, looking at me. He obviously wasn’t going to comment on his business aspirations.

  I heard a warning chime in my head indicating that I had only a mile left of fuel. I suddenly felt exhausted. It was time to wrap it up, come what may. “So, where were you the night Pete disappeared. That would be two Thursdays ago, March twenty-seventh?”

  He tried to blow smoke in my face, but the wind carried it off before it could get to me. It was the first time in my life I appreciated living in a tornado. “Fuck off,” he said pleasantly.

  “Come on, Raul,” I said, just as pleasantly. “Just between us. Where were you?”

  He thought about it, seemed to find my fool-hearted persistence amusing. After a couple of drags, he shrugged. “Why not? You are a pretty little thing. Though a lot stupid. I was playing poker with the boys. Like I do every Thursday night. There, you happy?”

  All the blood in my body seemed to rush to my head. What a disgusting, condescending ass! “I’m going to verify that alibi,” I said, barely hearing my own voice over the roaring in my ears.

  He smirked and tossed his cigarette on the ground at my feet, nearly igniting my spiffy black pumps. “You do that. Now get the fuck off my property.”

  6

  Driving home from Castillo Construction, tension pulsed through my body. Tightness in my skull turned into a massive headache. I felt exhausted. Raul’s bullying bigotry had sucked the energy right out me. How could people be like that? Did he feel good about hating his brother? It was no surprise that he had denied knowing about Pete’s disappearance, but what I didn’t get was his total lack of caring. If anything, Raul seemed happy Pete might be dead. I tried to imagine being Pete, the younger gay brother, teased and brutalized. To survive he would have to come to understand that his brother’s behavior had nothing to do with him, that Raul was sick, and he was okay. I felt a flash of respect for Gabby, who had stayed loyal to Pete through it all. I could see now why she hated Raul enough to think him capable of murder.

  I looked forward to getting home, even to seeing Lacy, which was evidence of my compromised state. I turned down my mom’s street—er, I should say, my street. I still thought of the house as hers, even though I had bought it nine months ago when I left San Diego to come here to live after she died. Today, with the memory of Raul feeling like grime on my skin, I felt grateful for this modest tract home, for its memories of my mother. We did not get on well, to put it mildly, but I respected her, she was a good woman. She had been a beacon of light in Desert Rock, a favorite teacher, a passionate activist. As long as she was in it, the world had been a better place. With someone like Raul alive and well and my mother dead, the transcendental scorecard felt out of whack. I looked forward to getting home, pouring myself a scotch, and taking a hot bath.

  The problem with wanting things too badly is you never get them. When I turned onto my street, I groaned: Vanessa’s white Mercedes was parked in front of my house. So this was the promised “catching up” she had threatened this morning over the phone. I felt my foot lift off the accelerator of its own accord, obeying some primal flight response. Unfortunately, I had discovered that fleeing from my sister provides only temporary succor—she will eventually track me down like a hungry jackal. I pulled into the driveway, resigned to the fact that it was best to get it over with. What “it” was exactly I couldn’t imagine, but for sure it wasn’t good.

  I slunk into the house and found my sister sitting at my kitchen table, drinking a glass of my wine, and feeding my Cheetos to my dog.

  “Sam, it’s about time! Where have you been?” she groused, as though I were late for an appointment. She didn’t even look at me, so intent was she on stuffing Cheetos into Lacy’s mouth.

  It was just like her to expect me to conform to her schedule without informing me of it. “Next time you drop by,” I said, sinking into the chair across from her, “feel free to rummage in my cupboards. And by the way, you shouldn’t be feeding that crap to Lacy.”

  She ignored this and offered up another Cheeto. The rottweiler’s slobbery crunching filled the room, and I had visions of orange drool strands draping the furniture. I noticed the beast had not given me the time of day when I came in, not a tail wag or anything. This was no surprise—when Vanessa is around, animals flock to her like she’s some modern-day St. Francis. The world can go up in flames and the critters will not stop gazing into her animal-whisperer eyes. Of course in this case, Lacy probably just wanted the Cheetos.

  “Sam,” Vanessa began, her lungs expanding preparatory to some harangue I was not going to like. “You have got to do something about Mom’s garden. Look at it,” she said, pointing a slender red-tipped finger at the heap of dead plants outside the patio door.

  I had no defense. The yard was a disaster. I admit it, I am not a nurturing person, and gardening is beyond any domestic instinct I might possess. I can play three sets of tennis or run six miles, no problem, but the idea of trimming a bush just wipes me out. Still, Vanessa’s bossy directive, which I knew wasn’t even the real reason she came to see me, could not go unanswered. “Listen to you: ‘Mom’s garden’—as if she still lives here.” This was disingenuous—I also thought of it as “Mom’s garden,” even though my mother had been dead nine months and the garden officially belonged to me now.

  Vanessa tossed her head as if pestered by a fly. I saw that her thick chestnut locks, their color and texture like mine, were perfectly styled as usual, despite the wind. What did she use, shellac? I was pretty sure that my earlier styling efforts had been destroyed by the wind, leaving my hair as limp and tangled as I felt at that moment. As if reading my mind, Vanessa finally took a good look at me and said, “Good
Lord! What’s with your hair? And makeup? And what on earth are you wearing?”

  Vanessa stared open-mouthed at my slinky red top and cleavage. I knew the mascara on my right eye must have run down my cheek by now due to all the tearing. Yet the pebble was still lodged tight.

  Before I could answer with some smartass quip, she huffed, “My God, I have always encouraged you to fix yourself up, but this is taking it too far. You look like a trollop! If you needed guidance on how to work on your appearance, which you clearly do, you should have called me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Did she really think I dolled myself up this way because I thought it would look good? Well, I certainly wasn’t going to explain myself to her. I snapped, “You act like I usually go around looking like crap because I don’t know how to use a blow dryer. Just because a woman doesn’t apply makeup with a trowel”—I looked meaningfully at her—“doesn’t mean she can’t look good. Some people like a more natural look.”

  She snorted. “A ‘natural’ look? Really, Sam. You’re just lazy. How do you expect to get Eddie away from that awful Gabriella Castillo if you don’t . . .” She stopped, looked at me harder. “Unless . . . Is that why you did this?”

  Ah, so this was the reason for her visit. I was so pissed at her I couldn’t get words out of my mouth.

  While I attempted to get my lips to move, she ploughed on. “I saw Gabby and Eddie at Ming’s a few days ago. I want to know what you’re going to do about it!”

  Was she insane? “What, you want me to ride the little hussy out of town? Hire a sniper to take her out? God, Van, if she wants to move back here, that’s her business. Besides, what does it matter to me?”

  Vanessa is a pain in the ass, but she isn’t stupid. She could hear the hollowness in my words. “Eddie is not going to wait around forever. Now, you know at first I thought you could do better—he only went to high school after all—but he has really done well for himself. Besides, he’s gorgeous. You’re mad to treat him like you do. He’s a nice guy, so he has put up with you, but now that his ex is back, he will drop you like a hot potato.”

  “’Drop me?’” I choked. “We’re not even dating! How many times have I told you, we’re just friends.”

  She shook her head again, the movement sending wafts of hairspray scent my way. “Men and women as tight as you two are not ‘friends.’ That may be a convenient way of looking at it for you, Miss Commitment Phobe, but I know Eddie is smitten.”

  I felt the blush start at my toes and end at the tips of my ears. I hated talking about this stuff, especially with my sister! I jumped to my feet and stomped over to the kitchen counter to make myself a drink. I said, my back to her, “How do you know what Eddie thinks? He would never talk like that, certainly not to you.”

  She snorted again. It was like talking to Mr. Ed. “People can see his feelings plain as day. Everyone but you. You don’t want to see them.”

  I splashed a good quantity of scotch into a tumbler and took a big gulp. It burned all the way down my esophagus and made my eyes water. The pebble in my eye shifted in the deluge, lodging in an even more painful location. I heard Cheetos crunching behind me and the sound of Vanessa’s nails tapping on the tabletop.

  My sister droned on. “All I’m saying is that Gabby is trouble, with a capital T. She treated Eddie worse than you did. She just left him when someone better came along. But Eddie’s too good, he’ll forgive and forget. I’m telling you, you need to do something.”

  I took another swig of scotch and turned to face her. I saw that she was dressed to the nines as usual. The designer outfit she wore to run errands around town was nicer than anything I would buy for a wedding. I huffed. Despite myself, I found that I was getting pulled into her melodrama. “And what exactly would you have me do? They’re adults, free to make their own choices.”

  “Oh, come on!” She rapped her nails again on the table, putting in grave jeopardy the manicure she probably paid more for than my entire months’ salary. “Even you can’t be that obtuse. You need to let Eddie know that you love him.”

  I choked on the scotch, the molten liquid burning holes in my throat. “You aren’t listening! It isn’t like that!”

  She waved a hand at me. “Of course you love Eddie. It is obvious to anyone with eyes to see.”

  “That is just—you are so—erg!” I slammed the glass down on the countertop. Sweat rolled down my temples, and I could feel my jaw throbbing. I turned away from her, snatched up the liquor bottle, and poured another finger into my glass.

  “Ahem,” I heard behind me. When I turned around, Vanessa held her wine glass out at me. She looked down at Lacy, a frown pulling down her perfectly sculpted brows. “If you need help learning how to brush a dog,” she said as if we had not just had the world’s stupidest conversation, “I can have Molly or Kaylee show you how.”

  How amusing. Molly and Kaylee, her daughters, are mere tots. Despite this criticism of my animal husbandry abilities, I was thrilled at the change of topic. “How are the two terrors?” I asked. I poured wine into her glass and shoved it into her outstretched hand, then sat down across from her.

  A mirthless laugh erupted from her mouth. “Kaylee has come to the conclusion that her kindergarten teacher is a witch. I mean a real, honest to goodness witch. Kaylee didn’t like her preschool teacher any better. I don’t get it, Molly has liked all her teachers. Not,” she admitted, “that they liked her back.”

  This last was said with grim acceptance that her girls were brats. Maybe my sister’s nurturing style worked fine with abused strays who needed love and trust above anything, but with two high-energy, smart-aleck urchins who needed structure and a firm hand, her loose approach to discipline was falling short. Not that I knew a thing about child-rearing or ever wanted to.

  I felt happy to be talking about something else besides Eddie and me. “And how’s Thomas?” Thomas is Vanessa’s husband, a respected attorney in town, and all around good guy. He only has one fault: He married my sister, demonstrating bad judgment.

  “Thomas who?” she said and popped a Cheeto into her mouth. Lacy stared at her chewing, looking put out. “He’s been so busy at work lately, I hardly see him. He’s worked every weekend for the last month. That means the kids are mine 24/7.” She sighed, ate another Cheeto, drank some wine.

  Vanessa loves her daughters, but anyone could see that constant exposure to them would be detrimental to one’s health. “So, where does that leave you?” I asked her.

  “In hell,” she said mildly.

  “Where are the girls now?”

  “Ballet. Jennifer Crandall—her daughter is Molly’s best friend—could see I was ready to crack and offered to take the girls. I owe her a trip to Tahiti.”

  We took a sip of our drinks, both staring out at what used to be Mom’s garden. The wind had blown drifts of sand and tumbleweeds against the fence. I could hear gusts whining through the cracks around the front door, a sound that got to you after a while. Wind this unremitting made people grouchy and amped up. I sighed. With the adrenaline gone with our argument, I felt fatigue flowing back into my body. It had been a difficult day—finding out Gabby was back in town, being talked into working on Pete’s case, negotiating a new book title with Vince, talking with Trent and that awful Raul about the case, and, to round it off nicely, having a fun fight with my sister. I sighed again.

  “You sound like you’re leaking,” Vanessa said, turning to look at me. “Why are you so tired?”

  I saw an opportunity I didn’t want to waste. “I’ve been running around all day asking people questions about Pete Castillo’s disappearance. You probably know Pete, since you’ve also been working to stop the toxic waste dump.”

  Vanessa nodded. She also narrowed her eyes at me, indicating her general disapproval of my extracurricular PI activities. She had been mortified when I investigated the wind farm murder, although she wound up helping me. Before she could work up a good stink about this latest foray into crime solving, I hurried to sa
y, “Eddie asked me to look into it.”

  Her eyes narrowed even further as she tried to work that one out. I could see the equation in her head: Eddie good, PI stuff bad, equals . . . what? Then her brain churned out some more equations: Pete Castillo, Gabby Castillo . . . Pete must be Gabby’s brother. Gabby is Eddie’s ex. Ah ha! Eddie was asking on behalf of Gabby.

  When I saw the lights go on at last, I felt myself pull back slightly before the onslaught.

  “How dare Eddie ask you to do this, YOU, help out his ex! I don’t understand what that man is thinking!”

  I didn’t either. Except that Eddie was simply a good man. If someone asked for help, he would try to give it. At least, that’s what I told myself. What I told Vanessa was this: “It doesn’t matter why. Eddie asked me. I’d think you’d be behind me on this.” I was sure Vanessa would look at this as a golden opportunity to curry favor with Eddie and get him away from Gabby. I didn’t look at it that way, of course—I was just doing it because Eddie asked me, and that’s what you do for friends.

  After thinking about it, she nodded vigorously. “That’s good, Sam. That’s brilliant.” She looked at me with admiration.

  Oh, how easy she is.

  Jumping on the opportunity, I asked, “With you so busy, are you still working on the protest?” I needed a contact for the group working against the mayor’s proposal, and I knew Vanessa could supply it.

  “Yeah right, I whipped up a batch of fliers during the thirty seconds I had today between soccer practice, tae kwon do, and shopping for a birthday party tomorrow.”

  My God, she sounded like me. This sarcasm was either evidence that she was spending too much time with me or, more likely, too much time with Molly, the tiny queen of sarcasm. Molly did not speak a word without rolling her eyes. I once told her that her eyes would start doing that permanently if she didn’t stop. To which she rolled her eyes.

  I said, “So, with you gone, and Pete gone, who’s fighting the good fight?”